


schnapps and daffodils

by lacrimalis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: ??? to Lovers, Good Guy Gaunter O'Dimm, Hallucinations, M/M, Mindfuck, Power Play, worship kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 14:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17982557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: I can be built or broken, but I have no shape. You can have me, but not hold me. I am only given freely, neither bought nor sold — but I'm more precious than gold.What am I?





	schnapps and daffodils

Despite Geralt devoting most of his time to the maintenance of his vineyard, and in spite of the praise his neighbors shower on the fruits and wines it produces and the multitude of parties they ask him to attend, they still can’t resist the temptation to ask after his services in dispatching monster infestations. The local knights errant have shaped up _somewhat_ in recent years — since Geralt eventually tired of their ineptitude, and at Barnabas-Basil’s suggestion he offered his services to train them to hunt monsters more effectively.

Even still, the drudgery of slaying monsters is considered the least noble of potential knightly pursuits, and the blustering cads are more likely to scuff their feet and direct any haggard field hands to Corvo Bianco, rather than debase themselves by handling the problem on their own.

It’s after one such begrudging contract that Geralt returns home at dusk, no worse for wear but nonetheless irritated at having to travel so far for something so simple. It had only been a couple of harpies, and he knows for a _fact_ Sir Pummeroy is responsible for that area. Could have made quick work of it in an afternoon, in fact, if he weren’t so worried about scuffing the delicate filigree of his golden plate armor.

Geralt decides he'll write the man tomorrow, assuring Sir Pummeroy that the minor inconvenience has been dealt with at the expense of Geralt’s time and patience.

Geralt guides Roach to her water trough as he considers how best to word the letter, waving off the stable hand who offers to unsaddle her. Despite his rise in social stature, he still prefers to do these things himself. It helps him wind down after a hunt, gather his thoughts.

Barnabas-Basil has already retired to the servant’s quarters when Geralt enters his house — though he smiles when he sees his majordomo has left him a note, wishing him well on his hunt and letting him know where Marlene has tucked away some non-perishables in case he hadn’t eaten on his journey. He's not actually hungry, but he appreciates the thought.

It's still early in the evening, but Geralt needs a long rest if he’s going to catch up on all his correspondence and orders for wine, fruit, and seed shipments he neglected so he could waste the day traveling.

When Geralt walks into his bedroom, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. His hand snaps to his steel blade as he turns to face the intruder.

Gaunter O'Dimm stands opposite the bed with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the embarrassing painting of Geralt laying nude atop a Griffin corpse.

Begrudgingly, Geralt releases the hilt of his blade and returns his hand to his side. “Enjoying the view?” Geralt asks dryly.

“The detail work _is_ impressive,” O'Dimm says appraisingly, as if he can't hear Geralt's irritation. “Or it would be, if anything but the broad strokes were painted from life.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, remembering the experience. “The griffin was real, at least.”

“Mm. Barely,” O'Dimm allows. “I suppose you didn't know the painter was undressing you with his eyes until he produced the finished piece?”

“Got it in one,” Geralt says. “Sure you weren't there?”

“I don't spend _all_ my time keeping tabs on you, Geralt,” O'Dimm chides with a scoff. “Now, if you really _had_ been posing in the nude, well... I might have found the time to take notice.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows. He wonders if there's any truth to that insinuation, or if O'Dimm is just trying to get a rise out of him.

“Probably wouldn't have agreed to that.”

“And yet you paid what was surely an unreasonable sum for a painting you hated, and put it on your wall,” O'Dimm says laughingly, half-turning toward Geralt. There's almost genuine humor in his grin, and the subtle differences from his customary salesman's smile are as apparent as night and day.

“Didn't want someone else to buy it,” Geralt feels the need to explain. “And yeah, I hanged it up. Reminds me not to trust shady merchants every time I get up in the morning.”

“I hope you're not referring to _me,_ Geralt,” O'Dimm says, though by the flash of mischief in his eye he knows exactly who Geralt is referring to. “Honesty is a policy of mine, after all. Surely I've proven myself trustworthy by now?”

Geralt snorts. On a hunch, he decides Gaunter O'Dimm's presence isn't going to stop him from getting ready for bed like he'd intended. If O'Dimm has a problem with that, he can leave the way he came.

As he removes his swords and hangs them up, he says, “Big difference between ‘honest’ and ‘trustworthy’. You made that clear last time.”

“I'd say I'm glad you learned something from our time together,” O'Dimm says as Geralt opens the wardrobe, “yet your words and actions are at odds. One does not disarm himself and expose his back to someone he doesn't trust.”

“Trust you to act in your own interests,” Geralt says as he removes his gloves. “Wouldn't be here if you didn't want something from me. Doubt taking a cheap shot at my back figures into that.”

“And what if I came here to kill you?”

Geralt tugs at the ties and clasps of his chest armor. “Then you wouldn't need my back to do it.” He wrestles out of the leather and fabric, taking uncharacteristic care to fold it properly before placing it in the wardrobe. “You could kill me by eating an apple in Vizima, if you wanted to.”

“Oh, but where's the fun in that? You know I prefer a more _personal_ touch.”

Geralt stiffens, his hand frozen on his belt.

O'Dimm's voice doesn't sound like it's coming from halfway across the room any more.

He looks over his shoulder to see the man standing behind him placidly, as if he'd always been there. “Need something?” he asks.

O'Dimm's eyes wander across Geralt's back, landing deliberately on each scar. “One like me does not _need_ anything,” O'Dimm says, his volume lowering in deference to their new proximity. Geralt turns around fully, and O'Dimm meets his eyes. “What are you doing, Geralt?”

 _Getting ready to bed down,_ he almost replies, but the sharp look O'Dimm is giving him tells him the man won't appreciate an evasive answer. Geralt glances at the painting without really seeing it, the intensity of O'Dimm's gaze capturing his attention even in his periphery. “Wondering if the genuine article is up to your exacting standards,” he says when he looks back at O'Dimm.

O'Dimm takes this as permission to go back to ogling Geralt. Geralt endures the scrutiny, fighting the urge to cross his arms as O'Dimm's gaze rakes across his chest.

“May I?” O'Dimm asks. Geralt looks at O'Dimm's raised hand, hovering on the edge of Geralt's answer.

Geralt's pulse flutters at the request. He nods.

O'Dimm's hand settles warm and firm on Geralt's hip. It's broad, which he could tell just by looking at it, and surprisingly soft, which he didn't expect. Then again, Geralt supposes it would make less sense if O'Dimm had calluses consistent with manual labor of any kind.

O'Dimm's fingers skate across a set of pink claw marks, following their path to the center of Geralt's stomach and leaving goosebumps in their wake. O'Dimm touches the small red scar on Geralt's opposite hip with his other hand, thumb digging into his iliac furrow. Geralt's breath leaves him in a gust.

O'Dimm remains silent, breathing quietly and evenly while his hands wander across Geralt's abdomen. They catch on the equidistant divots slanting from Geralt's stomach to his chest.

“Your skin is a tapestry of truly _fascinating_ tales,” O'Dimm remarks. “A unicorn healed this wound.”

Geralt has to steady his breathing and swallow before he answers. “Guess so,” he says. “I was out cold for that part.”

“I daresay you were more than _out cold,”_ O'Dimm contends, though the quirk of his lip says he's amused by the understatement.

Geralt laughs breathlessly as O'Dimm's hands pass over his nipples, trace the line of his clavicle. “Guilty as charged.”

“Mm,” O'Dimm says. His hands travel higher, one resting on a particularly nasty bite on his shoulder, and the other tracing the faint white scar across Geralt's throat. The wound left by the strigga healed nicely, and the scar is barely visible now. Trust O'Dimm to take notice of it anyway.

O'Dimm's thumb rests on Geralt's carotid artery, over his pulse. It quickens in response to the perceived danger — Geralt isn't in the habit of baring his throat to others. Yet he tilts his head back, gives O'Dimm a larger canvas to work with.

O'Dimm meets his eyes. Slowly, his hand relaxes from its gentle inspection of the strigga scar to wrap its fingers around Geralt's neck. Geralt's heart skips a beat, but he doesn't move, meeting O'Dimm's eyes unflinchingly.

The hand around his neck squeezes, once, and Geralt inhales sharply. Something flickers in O'Dimm's eyes, and his absent-minded smile broadens. “Oh, _Geralt,”_ he says, in the voice of someone receiving a gift they didn't expect. “You _do_ trust me, you fool.”

Geralt swallows, and O'Dimm's eyes flash. “Never said I didn't.”

O'Dimm sits on that for a moment. Then he laughs quietly, teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “I must admit, I didn't expect _this.”_

Geralt swallows again, just to see that shadow of desire pass over O'Dimm's expression again. “Getting more than you bargained for?”

O'Dimm tsks. “You can't bargain for _this,_ Geralt. I daresay that's the point.” The hand around Geralt's throat remains where it is, holding him in place. O'Dimm's other hand trails down his arm, finding Geralt's scars without even looking at them.  “That is what makes it so precious.”

O'Dimm's touch has been working Geralt up into something of a state, but it's that word — _precious,_ in reference to Geralt, to something he's offering — that makes his stomach tighten with arousal, makes his cheeks warm and his cock begin to swell.

O'Dimm squeezes his throat once more before releasing it and stepping away.

Geralt arches his back in protest, tilts his body forward, chasing the departing heat of his touch.

“Turn,” O'Dimm says, and Geralt blinks through the warm haze that's settled around him to see O'Dimm pointing at the floor and rotating his wrist. “I'm not finished with you yet.”

Geralt shivers at the suggestive nature of O'Dimm's tone, now that the man knows what's on offer. Heat rushes through Geralt's veins, and he obligingly turns around.

O'Dimm's gaze is a physical presence all its own as it surveys the carnage of Geralt's back with new eyes, new intent.

“O'Dimm,” Geralt says with effort, when the silent looks have stretched on for an interminable, agonizing length and his skin is aching for the other man's touch.

“Gaunter will do,” is the response.

Geralt is all too happy to oblige. “Gaunter,” he says, and is immediately rewarded with a pair of hands on his hips, traveling upward. Geralt sighs, arching his back slightly.

“These scars,” Gaunter says as his hands stroke a particularly gruesome claw mark, “are much more pronounced than the ones on your chest and arms.”

“Harder to reach,” Geralt says roughly. He shudders as a hand presses down the length of his spine.

“Ah, that's right... The noble witcher walks his Path alone. No brothers in arms to dress your wounds.” Gaunter's breath ghosts over the back of Geralt's neck, making his hair stand on end.

Gaunter continues to touch Geralt with deliberate focus, lingering on his scars to watch their stories unfold before his eyes. Geralt's skin warms beneath his touch.

“Do you know why trust is not bargained for?” Gaunter asks, fingers spider-climbing down Geralt's arms.

“No,” Geralt huffs. His breath stutters when Gaunter presses his nose to the soft skin behind Geralt's ear, inhaling his scent.

“It's because trust,” Gaunter whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Geralt's ear, “is _priceless.”_ He presses his chest to Geralt's back, the cool fabric of his tunic a stark contrast to his touch, but quickly warming with Geralt's ambient body heat.

“Not gonna ask you to pay a price for something you didn't ask for,” Geralt says, in case that's what Gaunter is getting at.

It _is_ what Gaunter is getting at. “Not all asking is done with words, Geralt.” Gaunter's arms move to enfold Geralt in a possessive embrace, fingers digging into his chest and abdomen, grasping.

Geralt's lips twist into a scowl, even as the scrape of Gaunter's blunt nails sends currents of pleasure through him. “This isn't a transaction.”

A puff of breath sends Geralt's hair into his face, tickling his cheek. “All relationships are inherently transactional. I scratch your back, you ask me for riches beyond your wildest dreams... Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your _mind.”_

The thought _has_ crossed his mind, and it leaves just as bitter a taste in his mouth hearing it from Gaunter as it had in his own head. “I know what it's like to be a kept witcher. Not exactly the same as this... but I'm not gonna do that to you.”

Gaunter drops one hand from Geralt's chest to tangle it in his hair, stroking and scratching his scalp. Geralt groans and lets his head loll back, moving at the mercy of Gaunter's hand.

 _“Really_ , Geralt,” Gaunter sighs, the new angle sending his breath across Geralt's neck. “Opportunities like this don't come every day. I'd be disappointed if you didn't take advantage.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Geralt mutters.

Gaunter hums, sending tingling vibrations through Geralt’s shoulder. “And if I insisted?”

Geralt sighs, frustrated. “How important is it to you?”

Nuzzling into the crook of Geralt’s neck, his stubble rasping _delightfully_ across his skin, Gaunter says, _“Very.”_

A wordless grumble. Then, “I’d _consider_ it.”

By the wordless sound he makes, Gaunter seems satisfied with this concession. “You may think of it as my returning a favor of gratitude, if that makes it any easier for you,” he assures Geralt, and he latches onto Geralt's neck, sucking hard enough to bruise.

Geralt hisses, and when Gaunter bites down his cock twitches in the confines of his armored leggings. _“Gaunter,”_ he gasps raggedly, hands fumbling for a place to ground himself. One hand settles on the wardrobe in front of him, sliding on the fabric of his armor as he grasps for the edge of the shelf. The other flies up to Gaunter's hand on his chest, their fingers tangling together clumsily.

“I do so _love_ my name on your lips,” Gaunter murmurs into the bruise he's made. The cold of his breath on Geralt's wet skin is maddening.

Geralt makes a needy sound through gritted teeth, squirming. “Gaunter, please, I _need—”_

“Hush,” Gaunter soothes. “I know _exactly_ what you need, my dear Geralt.”

Gaunter steps backward slowly, and wrapped tightly as he is in his arms, Geralt has little option but to follow. Gaunter lowers them to the bed, his legs on either side of Geralt’s.

“Remove the rest of your armor,” Gaunter bids him, and Geralt rushes to comply as Gaunter releases him. He hastily unbuckles his boots and knee pads, fumbling with the straps and clasps. Gaunter's thumbs rub maddening circles in the small of his back as he works, driving him to distraction.

When Geralt finally manages, he tosses the boots and knee pads across the floor and out of the way.

When he reaches again for his belt, Gaunter says, “Allow me.”

Then Gaunter is before him, kneeling between Geralt's legs, and Geralt nearly falls backward in the absence of the support Gaunter had been providing. He throws his hands out to catch himself on the bedding.

Geralt can't find it in him to take offense — not when Gaunter is smiling up at him from between his legs with those sleepy, satisfied eyes.

Gaunter unbuckles his belt, brushing the unfortunately armored codpiece, and he hooks his thumbs into Geralt's pants and underwear. Geralt lifts his hips without prompting, and Gaunter slides it all down and tosses it away.

When he’s fully undressed, Gaunter’s eyes inspect his nude form like a pair of smoldering coals. Geralt warms quickly under their heated gaze. His hands wrap around Geralt’s ankles, sliding slowly up to his knees. When they eventually settle on his thighs, one hand pressing and stroking the deep slashes left by a nekker’s claws, Geralt sighs shakily, his cock twitching with hopeful interest.

Gaunter leans forward, and Geralt inhales sharply — but he only plants a wet kiss on the scar he’s been fondling, and Geralt groans.

“Patience, Geralt,” Gaunter says, his breath fluttering maddeningly over Geralt’s cock.

“Don’t have your saintly patience, unfortunately,” Geralt huffs, and Gaunter must find his borderline blasphemy amusing, since he rewards it by wrapping his mouth around the head of Geralt’s cock.

After so much teasing, the wet heat of Gaunter’s mouth is overwhelming. Geralt very nearly collapses onto the bed, but just manages to catch himself on his elbows so he can watch Gaunter work.

There’s something _otherworldly_ about the heat, and it only reminds Geralt of Gaunter’s inhuman nature. It’s more of an encouragement than a deterrent to Geralt’s desire, and his cock throbs. He whimpers, digging his hands into the bedspread and twisting them as Gaunter presses his tongue to his frenulum.

When Gaunter lowers his head and starts humming, Geralt finally does collapse back onto the bed. His mind is so abuzz with the intensity of the sensation that it takes him a moment to realize Gaunter isn’t humming a single note, but a tune — that _folk song_ about him, the one he’d whistled when they last parted ways.

Geralt laughs, the spasms in his abdomen ratcheting up his arousal, tightening the knot of it gathering in his stomach. “Gaunter,” he begins breathlessly, but he cuts himself off with a gasp when that impossible heat envelops the entirety of his cock, his stubble tickling the inside of Geralt’s thighs.

“I know you’re a man of few words,” Gaunter says, _without_ removing his mouth from Geralt’s cock — his voice is in Geralt’s _head,_ banishing all other thought with its clarity and intent. “But perhaps you’d be willing to be a little more _vocal.”_

Geralt is _willing,_ but whether or not he’s able to manage more than wordless cries remains to be seen. Still, with the performance Gaunter is giving him, he’s damn well going to _try. “Gaunter,”_ Geralt says again, straining to speak through the paroxysms of pleasure. “Your mouth is so _hot_ , it’s — _fuck_ — it’s like a _furnace_.”

Gaunter slides back up Geralt’s cock, his petal-soft lips brushing the sensitized head. When next he speaks it’s in his own voice, rather than the one in Geralt’s head. “I can make it hot enough to burn, if you’re tempted.”

 _Geralt_ burns, his blood scalding his veins with desire. He groans, because he _is_ tempted, but he doesn’t want Gaunter to actually _maim_ him.

Soft laughter cools his cock, and Geralt’s hips jerk. “I’ll be delicate,” Gaunter assures him.

“Gods, yes,” Geralt breathes, and when Gaunter obliges him a wordless shout leaps from his throat. Gaunter’s descent is even slower this time, acclimating Geralt to the almost unbearable heat. Geralt grits his teeth and tosses his head at the excruciating pace, though he can’t reconcile with himself if he wants it to be slower or faster.

When Gaunter’s lips settle over the base of his cock, Geralt pounds a fist into the mattress. “Fuck! Melitele _wept—”_

Gaunter laughs again, and the spasms in his throat make Geralt arch off the bed. His muscles quake with tension. “Gaunter,” he grits out, “Please, I _can’t—”_

“Deep breaths, Geralt,” comes Gaunter’s voice, but this time as a warm whisper in his ear. Geralt’s mind reels with the possibilities of that displacement, wonder and desire prompting him to imagine Gaunter surrounding him, unraveling him with a dozen hands, a dozen dark lusting eyes pinning him with their gaze —

“All in good time,” Gaunter promises, and where his voice comes from this time Geralt honestly has no idea, “but for now, you must _breathe.”_

Geralt inhales, shuddering. When he exhales, it’s a quiet whimper. Gaunter strokes a hand along his thigh, catching on the tacky sheen of sweat. His touch is cool, now, against the heat Geralt has built up.

Gaunter waits with ceaseless patience as Geralt gathers himself.

Eventually, Geralt collapses back to the bed, breathing slowly, if shakily. He’s still on the knife’s edge of orgasm. He can do little else with that maddening heat around his cock. “You _did_ come here to kill me,” Geralt decides, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Gaunter slides off his cock, and Geralt groans with discomfort, drawing his feet up onto the bed for some measure of protection against the cool air. Gaunter wraps his hands around Geralt’s cock without stroking, warming it, and that — helps.

“I admit I’m enjoying drawing this out,” Gaunter says. Geralt starts to say ‘no shit,’ until Gaunter’s hands squeeze, robbing him of his breath and impertinence. “It’s not often I receive so fine an offering.”

“Offering,” Geralt grumbles. He doesn't soften any, but his peak slowly grows more distant with each passing second. Geralt glowers from beneath the shadow of his arm. “Want me to sing your praises, too?”

Gaunter’s grin broadens. “I certainly wouldn’t object.”

Geralt buries his reddening face in his hands. Fine. _Fine._ “Fine,” he groans. “Put that silver tongue of yours to work, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll do _beautifully,”_ Gaunter says, and he sets to work.

His mouth is still unnaturally warm when it returns, but it’s come back down to a more reasonable temperature, which is probably for the best. Geralt’s cock is so achingly sensitive that anything more intense would likely be painful. He props himself up on his elbows to get a good look at the proceedings, and he realizes his cock is as red as if he’d just climbed out of a scalding hot bath.

Gaunter meets his eyes and sinks to the base of Geralt’s cock, and that’s the end of Geralt’s arms supporting him with _anything_ but clinging to the bedspread for dear life.

Geralt breathes, tries to focus long enough to string two words together. He's competed in duels of wit thanks to Toussaint's more bizarre customs, and he's performed and been forced to improvise flowery language often enough in service of Dandelion's bardic scheming. He knows a thing or two about speaking poetically on short notice.

Geralt thinks he can manage something a _little_ more sophisticated than regular dirty talk, if that's what Gaunter O'Dimm is into.

“I praise thy spring-fair smile, warm and inviting,” Geralt tries, and at the way the heat in Gaunter's mouth notches up, and how he starts to work Geralt over with something resembling a _rhythm,_ Geralt figures he's on the right track. He groans and clenches his fists for something to focus on. “I praise... thy fiery gaze, beneath which all secrets lay bare.”

Geralt doesn't trust his arms to hold him up and look, but his chest prickles with sudden sun spots of heat, and he suspects that’s the doing of Gaunter’s ‘fiery gaze’.

Geralt licks his lips. “Thy silvery tongue, thy promises sweet—” Geralt gasps as Gaunter hollows his cheeks and presses his tongue to the bottom of Geralt’s cock, sliding sweetly along the veins underneath as he glides back and forth. “I — _fuck,_ ” Geralt groans, his eyes screwing shut and neck straining as Gaunter goes back to humming. “I praise your,” he stammers, “your names — Gaunter O’Dimm, Man of Glass, Master Mirror—”

Gaunter O’Dimm growls around Geralt like a beast, and there’s a heart-stopping moment where sharp teeth graze his cock — before their deadly points retreat, along with the heat of Gaunter’s mouth.

Chest heaving, Geralt squints his eyes open to glare at his tormentor. He thought he was doing a decent job, so he’s feeling more than a little cheated that Gaunter has stopped right on the verge of Geralt’s orgasm, _again._

But then Geralt takes in the sight of him.

Gaunter’s skin has turned dark gray, dappled with fine black grains that make him resemble a statue carved from living stone. His eyes are completely black, save for the shimmering yellow irises that make Geralt’s vision blur when he tries to focus on them.

Molten light glimmers in the cracks of his stony face, and when he smiles, Geralt can just catch catch a glimpse of fiery depths in the back of Gaunter’s throat. _“Esseath elaine, enʼca minne,”_ Gaunter mouths into Geralt’s thigh. His voice is a rumble and a whisper, a heat distortion in the air.

“Uh,” says Geralt, furrowing his brow as his vision goes double. Despite the disorienting effects of looking at Gaunter when he’s like this, Geralt’s arousal hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s _intensified._

Peals of laughter spill through the air in every direction, _from_ every direction. “Your words are potent victuals, Geralt. I hadn’t expected you to respond quite so _ardently_ to my request.”

Geralt doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed for his over-enthusiasm. The air pressure is shifting unnaturally, like it’s promising a lightning storm. His hair stands on end. “You gonna reward me?” he asks muzzily, the assault on his senses intoxicating him.

“Handsomely,” Gaunter says with a wicked grin, and he crawls atop Geralt like a prowling panther.

Through the haze Geralt makes out the sensation of a warm hand around his cock. He arches his back and thrusts into Gaunter’s grasp, opens his mouth in a wordless cry.

With his lips Gaunter captures the sound. Geralt moans, reaching up to touch, venturing to deepen the kiss — but when he does, it scalds his tongue. He whimpers, clenching his fists in Gaunter’s tunic.

“Shh,” Gaunter soothes against his lips when he breaks the kiss. “Relax.”

Earlier, Geralt had shrugged off Gaunter’s fully-clothed state, guessing it was some kind of power play. But he realizes now the clothes wouldn’t have made a difference. Gaunter’s current state _,_ having dispensed with his human guise and brimming over with lethal heat, _is_ his state of undress.

 _Geralt_ did that.

Gaunter kisses him again, and this time Geralt surrenders to it, doesn’t venture for anything but what the Man of Glass gives him. Heat spills into his lungs, gathering in his chest, from which it spreads to the rest of him and sets his nerve endings alight — slowly, like a burgeoning flame, and then just as it climbs toward an unbearable height, it’s doused with a white-hot stroke of lightning.

Geralt releases into Gaunter’s hand, clinging to the man for dear life. He thinks he screams — but if he does, Gaunter surely captures it with his searing lips.

* * *

In the morning, Geralt knows the events of the previous night weren’t a dream because there's a blister on his bottom lip, and a frankly impressive hickey blooming in purple and yellow on his neck.

Gaunter is nowhere to be found, though Geralt is aware that doesn't necessarily mean the man isn't _there._ And he can't exactly fault Gaunter for not spending the night. For all he knows, the Man of Glass doesn't _require_ sleep — and even Geralt imagines he’d be hard-pressed to watch someone snore for eight hours, no matter how fondly he regarded them.

Geralt stretches languidly, aching but satisfied, and starts thinking about breakfast.

He throws on a white shirt and a pair of comfortable pants and boots, and after some consideration informs Marlene they might have an unexpected guest today, or tomorrow, or some other day. She accepts this with her usual serenity, and Geralt takes his breakfast and a bottle of schnapps outside to enjoy the sunshine.

As he’s eating, he writes a scathing letter to Sir Pummeroy for wasting his time. It’s honestly a miracle he remembers, after getting mind-fucked by Gaunter O’Dimm the previous evening. But he signs and seals it with satisfaction, and he hands it off to Barnabas-Basil before he’s even finished breakfast.

Then Barnabas-Basil fretfully presses some urgent correspondence he'd missed from yesterday into his hands. Geralt sighs resignedly as he takes it from him. He skims a few of them and starts writing his responses.

It would be faster to deal with it inside, he reflects, where the gentle breeze won't play at the corners of the parchment while he's trying to write on it. But if Geralt has to grit his teeth and respond politely to some of the more infuriating letters from the pile on the table, he's better off outside where he won't be tempted to break the furniture.

The soft smells of earth and greenery, and the distant sounds of birds and Corvo Bianco's chattering field hands, go a long way to soothe Geralt's fraying nerves.

When Geralt is finished nearly three hours later, Barnabas-Basil magnanimously braves Geralt's expression of disgust to take it all out of his sight. In consolation, he replaces the offensive pile of tripe with a book Geralt had started reading a few days earlier.

"Thanks, B.B.," Geralt says, surprised at the thoughtful gesture. He _shouldn't_ be, he knows. Barnabas-Basil takes pride in his profession as Corvo Bianco's majordomo, and he obviously considers Geralt a friend.

But after a lifetime of walking the Path alone and counting few people as 'friend', Geralt still can't help being surprised when he's treated like one.

"Of course, sir," Barnabas-Basil replies with a bow and a smile, before he heads off to find a messenger for the lot.

Grateful for a reprieve from the circumspect rambling of nobles, Geralt eagerly buries his nose in  his copy of  _Legend of a Blasphemer_ where he'd left off. The dog-eared page has been smoothed out,  and in its place is a cardstock bookmark.

With a fond roll of his eyes he removes the bookmark, and eager distraction turns to genuine absorption as Geralt immerses himself in the book.

After a time, the slowly climbing sun glints on the bottle of schnapps he'd brought out and which he had yet to open. Figuring he deserves a drink after the morning he's had, Geralt pops it open and pours it into one of the glass flutes he'd asked Marlene to set out.

If Gaunter  _does_  show up, Geralt decides the Man of Glass will just have to deal with it if he takes offense that Geralt started drinking without him.

Sipping his drink and reading, time gets away from Geralt, and the sun reaches its zenith without him even noticing.

Someone moves into his field of vision, and Geralt starts to sigh, as he expects it to be Barnabas-Basil with more paperwork that needs doing.

When he looks up, however, the person standing in arm's reach before him is Gaunter O'Dimm, smiling as ever and looking just the same as he always does.

The guttering candle of Geralt's spirit flares to life. He'd call it unaccountable, if he were in the habit of lying to himself.

Geralt nearly drops his book — luckily he's just set down his glass, which probably wouldn't have fared as well. He straightens and clears his throat. “Gaunter," he says, feeling foolish at how pleased he is to see the man. "Uh, morning."

Gaunter patiently watches Geralt make a fool of himself, and at the greeting his smile grows handsomely crooked. “I believe it is _just_ shy of afternoon, in fact,” he says with a pointed glance to the sky. “Day drinking, Geralt?” He gestures to the nearly empty glass flute with a raised eyebrow. "No wonder you don't know what time it is."

Gaunter's response gives Geralt a moment to gather his wits, during which he replenishes his glass. “I'm a vintner now. Day drinking is in the job description." Geralt lifts the glass toward Gaunter in a toast before taking a sip. He licks his lower lip, ignoring the twinge of the blister as he savors the bittersweet flavor and the tingling sensation of strong alcohol.

Gaunter's eyes flicker to the movement.

Geralt grins, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the table. “You're welcome to join me, if you want.”

Gaunter appraises the spread: Marlene hasn't brought out lunch yet, but there's a platter of fruit Geralt has been snacking on, the nearly full bottle of sunset orange alcohol, and an empty glass flute.

“Expecting someone?” Gaunter inquires with a nod toward the second glass.

Geralt snorts. “Like you don't know it's you... It was more of a ‘just in case’ thing than an expectation. I know you're busy.”

“No rest for the wicked, as they say,” Gaunter agrees. “And I _was_ busy, though not with what you might expect.” Geralt only realizes Gaunter has one hand behind his back when he brings it forward to produce —

A bright yellow flower. A daffodil, Geralt identifies absently. He looks at it, then Gaunter, in bewilderment.

“A token,” Gaunter supplies, “to apologize for leaving unannounced.”

“I'm not some swooning maiden,” Geralt grumbles as he takes the flower anyway. It makes a strange sort of tenderness bubble up in his chest. No one's ever given him _flowers_ before.

“Come now, Geralt — who says a man cannot enjoy the simple beauty of flowers?" Gaunter challenges. Geralt settles back with a grin as he senses an oncoming lecture. "I personally find them _delightful._ You humans have been mooning over flowers as long as you've lived — even developed _languages_ out of them. Endearing, really. What’s not to love?”

“Yeah?” Geralt prompts, tucking the daffodil behind his ear. “And what do daffodils say in this language of flowers?”

“You're a learned man,” Gaunter says with a gesture at the  _Legend of a Blasphemer_  in Geralt's hands. “I expect it would be a trifle for you to find a book on the subject.”

Geralt sets the book aside, making a mental note to inquire with Barnabas-Basil about getting his hands on just such a thing. “Fair enough. And uh, apology accepted.” The daffodil's soft petals tickle his temple.

“Marvelous,” Gaunter says, and when he sits down in the available chair, Geralt pours him a drink. Gaunter lifts the flute to his nose and smells it with the gravitas of a sommelier. “Peach schnapps,” he observes. “As I recall, we toasted our first meeting with Nilfgaardian lemon.”

Geralt covers the bottom half of his face with his flute, but it’s so thin it hardly conceals anything — and Gaunter's gaze cuts right through him, besides. “Yeah, I remembered. Just didn't want to come off as a one-note date.”

Gaunter’s smile twitches in amusement. “That’s quite thoughtful of you, Geralt. I’m touched.”

Geralt’s ears warm, and he looks away as he sips from his flute. “So there’s a masquerade... garden party, thing,” he deflects.

“Oh? Do tell,” Gaunter invites him, graciously accepting Geralt’s clumsy change in subject.

Geralt reaches into his pocket. The invitation had been mixed in with the formidable stack he received from Barnabas-Basil earlier that morning. It's the sort of thing he'd normally toss, but when he saw it peeking out between a trend report of monster activity in the area and an 'emergency' order for a dozen barrels of wine, he'd been struck with inspiration.

Geralt produces the invitation and passes it over. Gaunter probably already knows what it says, but if he does he humors Geralt by giving it his undivided attention. “It’s uh, next week. Wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

Gaunter looks up from the letter. “Geralt,” he says with slow, amused patience, “you _hate_ formal events.”

Geralt’s lip twitches. “Yeah, but you love them. Bet you’re the life of the party, when you’re not torturing ghosts.”

Gaunter waves a hand nonchalantly. “Those aren’t _mutually exclusive,_  I'll have you know."

Laughing under his breath, Geralt asks, “So? You interested?”

Gaunter grins rakishly. “I’m _much_ more than interested, Geralt.” His gaze lands on the blister on Geralt’s bottom lip, and Geralt gets the impression he’s not talking about the party.

Despite the balmy heat without and the alcohol warming him within, Geralt shivers.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes, obscure fruit and flower symbolism:
> 
>   * The solution to the riddle in the summary is "trust"! Kudos to those of you who copped to it before O'Dimm dropped the answer. :)
>   * Daffodils bloom in spring, so naturally they represent rebirth and new beginnings — particularly fitting, with Gaunter O'Dimm's "smile fair as spring"!
>   * Traditionally, schnapps was offered as a way to seal an agreement, and as a gesture of friendship. All the more significant that O'Dimm ordered it at his and Geralt's first meeting, where they technically DID seal an agreement.
>   * Peaches symbolize a lot of things! Among them and specifically for my purposes: truth, virtue, and longevity. Some mythology depicts peaches as having protective magical properties, and certain types of peaches as granting immortality! In Renaissance art, a peach and a leaf together represent truth, which harkens back to ancient times when such a combination represented sincere, cordial speech. :')
>   * Lemons symbolize bitterness and disappointment 8)
> 



End file.
